


i'll sing a song for you (singe ich ein lied für dich)

by Lizzen



Category: Atomic Blonde (2017)
Genre: Bisexuality, Bittersweet, Cunnilingus, Debauchery, F/F, Fingerfucking, Heavy Drinking and Smoking, Smut, brief use of cocaine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-15 14:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13033125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/pseuds/Lizzen
Summary: Yes, she thinks,send me to the mostbrutalcorner of the world. Send me there, and watch me shine; an exploration of Delphine’s first year in Berlin





	i'll sing a song for you (singe ich ein lied für dich)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [originally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/gifts).



> a gift for originally in Yuletide 2017
> 
> Thanks to originally for the lovely prompts!  
> A million kisses to my betas and cheerleaders!!

**//AUDIO RECORDING**

  * Yes.
  * Don’t underestimate me, Percival.
  * Oh, Lasalle, listen to me very carefully. You have _no_ idea who you’re dealing with.
  * You set me up.
  * You-- Come on, love, this is the _game_.
  * I know your secrets, David, and I can play this game better than you think.



**/////**

 

 

**< 001>**

It’s when she provides Le Contrôle with a series of photographs of himself and a young man, that’s when he pays attention. The photographs don’t explicitly say anything, but there is intent in the body language, in the gaze. Enough to damn. He straightens up in his chair and looks her in the eye. “How does West Berlin sound?” he says in German and she responds with an innocent smile.

“Délicieux.”

Her contacts are all in Algeria and south of that, and she can still feel sand in her shoes. There’s also the very apparent fact that she can barely hold her own in a fight, nevermind staring down a dark alley at a KGB agent. It’s an absurd choice to send her there.

 _But yes_ , she thinks, _send me to the most_ brutal _corner of the world. Send me there, and watch me shine._

 

**< 016>**

“Percival,” he says. “David Percival.” And he waits almost a half second before adding: “MI6.” Her eyebrows raise at the admission. “Nice to meet you, Lasalle,” he continues, shaking her outstretched hand. She had not told him her name. “Welcome to the coldest city. Can I buy you a drink?”

As she nods, she considers options. To lie, or to lie, or to lie? And when she blows him with her knees on cobblestones, she hopes that will blind him a little. Help make up his mind about her as she takes him in her mouth. Give him a blind spot where she stands.

It helps that he’s handsome, she thinks, and all the better for how often will she look at him through a camera’s lens?

 

**< 047>**

Irina keeps her busy; tailing her is nearly impossible and yet Delphine quickly learns from her mistakes, and finds new routes and hidey holes to linger in in order to take the best shots in the freezing cold.

None of them get her anywhere, none of them impress Le Contrôle, but oh, what skills she learns. The heights she will achieve with her camera between her and truly shocking things. (She saves a photo, of Irina looking back at her, and her smile is so wide and so beautiful. It’s a failure at spywork, but oh, what a beautiful woman.)

 

**< 101>**

Her mark is the bit on the side that a KGB agent keeps in East Berlin. Klara is her name and she’s half French. Intelligence was made aware of her through two means: her rich Parisian parents are looking for her, and she’s been photographed with Bremovych and _not_ in a compromising position as one would expect. Klara will know things that France would love to provide, graciously, to the Americans.

Delphine, of course, has to beat the others to her, but-- Klara, you see, is rather fond of eating pussy before her lover comes home. A warm up that keeps her, and some lucky girl, warm. And Delphine is all too happy to be that girl, and meet this desire.

It’s a couple of months before she opens her mouth with a shift in seduction, and Klara’s eyes water.

“You’re CIA?” she says suddenly and without emotion, and Delphine sing songs the words _allons enfants_ with her arms crossed. There’s a touch of pride in her at that; she, she did this. France did this. And she sits up straighter, watching a woman realize her life is now changed irrevocably. That there is no escape from this, this moment. And Delphine hasn’t even shown her the photographs yet.

She’s never turned an asset, and the thrill of it is intoxicating.

“Don’t send me home,” Klara says at last. “I can’t bear it. Send me anywhere else.”

“As you wish,” she says, knowing Pierre will fight her on this point. Those parents have lined so, so many pockets.

Klara dresses as if heading to her execution. “You should know,” she says finally. “He eats children.”

And she considers this, considers the words carefully. Opens her mouth and says: “I’m not a child.”

 

**< 173>**

“How long have you been in Berlin?,” she asks as they kill a bottle of Château d'Yquem, stolen from a Russian operative’s safe house. It was well hidden, but Pierre can smell out the finer things in life from a mile away.

“Longer than you’ve been alive,” Pierre replies with a smile.

“Then why,” she asks, “why don’t you run this town, why must it be _Percival’s Berlin_?”

He blinks and then makes a flourishing gesture with his hands. “Because of the two things that you know about me, _old girl_. I’d rather die than sleep with a woman and my skin’s the wrong color.”

She takes it in. Raises her glass in a silent but bitter cheer. He clinks glasses with her and they drink the sweet liquid down. Pours another glass.

“Do you ever mean it?” he asks suddenly.

“Mean what?” she asks, her voice slurring.

“Your line about the poet,” he says, “or a rockstar?” and his eyes focus on her; an intense sort of thing.

He’s not one she likes lying to. She says, “I can’t rhyme for shit,” and she laughs when he laughs.

 

**< 199>**

She’s not lying about being a part time translator. Her basic bills are paid for but she likes the extra spending money as well as a truth behind her cover.

There’s many clients; a museum or two, and about seven businesses. And then there’s a woman she’s tutoring in French. She’s a very pretty piece of flesh and Delphine can’t always help herself. They occasionally fall into bed after she gets the pronunciation perfectly.

 _Some things are so hard to do with German lips,_ she thinks, _and some things_ aren’t.

And if she’s being brutally honest, the mademoiselle is much better at sex than she is at conjugating verbs. And much more creative too; Delphine must hide her surprise when a strap on is introduced to the affair. There’s a determined leaning into it on Delphine’s part despite how much she must nurse the ensuing aches the next day. _But why not_ , she thinks, _this is Berlin and we could all die tomorrow._

 

**< 213>**

David is waiting for her at the other end of the checkpoint. “I thought it was time for a chat,” he says, and he offers her a cigarette. She thinks, she really thinks, before reaching out and taking it. Smiling a pert sort of smile and saying: “Is it too early to drink?”

And his smile reaches his eyes.

They close a bar down, and she knows it will hurt tomorrow, but she means business. She means to make her mark.

At the end of a bottle, he says: “I really missed it with Klara, that was good work.”

“And you handled _Rene_ quite well. I’m not _that_ good at cocksucking.”

He blushes, leans in: “It’s all about the tongue, sweetheart.” And she raises her eyebrows.

He eats her out that night, in between counterfeit egyptian cotton sheets. She’d be rude to say that she didn’t learn a thing or too. David’s mouth; so excellent at many, many things.

 

**< 214>**

Pierre demands breakfast and a report out, and early enough so he can catch a train to Paris later. As she drinks down a terrible cup of coffee to nurse her hangover, she tells him every explicit detail if only to make him blush and look at her through narrowed eyes.

“You’re a touch mad,” he says. “Percival is dangerous.”

“I like dangerous,” she says with a shrug.

And then his mouth opens and something really surprising comes out. It’s the mystery of a double agent and he’s certain it’s Gasciogne; what, with all his lengthy visits to Moscow.

“ _He_ wants proof. You can provide it,” he says evenly.

Delphine nods her head, makes as neutral a face as possible, eyes unfocused. For that’s when the thought is born -- a theory that she’ll nurse but keep her mouth shut about it. _What if,_ she thinks. Oh, the hedonistic, shameless, wild and wide eyed David Percival as this _Comrade Satchel_ ; hiding in plain sight. _What if._

There’s a tingle in her hands, and a longing for her camera.

 

**< 233>**

There are times when she lets him see her, just so he thinks that she’s an amateur at this. Just so he thinks she doesn’t have a dozen photos of him that almost, _almost_ damn. Bremovych and his leading lieutenants seem to give Percival a wide berth now that she’s looking; shame.

She doesn’t have the perfect shot yet, but it’s only a matter of time

 

**< 282>**

She never misses the opening of an art installation on either side of the wall.

There's too much pain and pleasure in the scene right now; it would be a shame to miss it. To not enjoy it and be shocked by it. All the symphonies of color to soak in, and the knowledge that this liminal time is precious. Before the wall comes down. Before their lives shift.

She never misses the opening of an art installation, so she shouldn't be surprised that someone sits in wait for her. Biding his time till she arrives. He’s a loud presence, with his black and white suit in the middle of the colorful bohemia. _How do the Americans_ do _anything_ , she thinks, and then remembers how she's never snapped a good photo of him. He's just a suit; or he's good.

"Lasalle," Kurzfeld says and she lifts up her hand as if to let him kiss it, and he tilts his head to the side until she puts it down. "I never thanked you for Klara. We got a lot out of her," he says, as if the woman was some juiced lemon. "It was good work."

He's taking her temperature so she keeps her shoulders straight but her posture slightly off. "Mmm," she says and then gestures at one of the pieces; a mixed media of neon light, paint, and charcoal. "Tell me what you see," she says.

After a moment: "Job security."

She doesn’t quite laugh.

“Unrelated topic,” he says, “There’s a job for you in Algeria, should you want it.” He says it as if he’s having the most casual conversation. “With the company.”

Part of her wants to hold up her hand, lean it against the cold wall and push her weight in; be held up by something stronger than her bones. She succumbs to her other desire; a cigarette in her mouth and three puffs before her mouth opens. “I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be, I want you out of Berlin,” he says evenly, and with no further explanation.

She stares at him, a steady gaze. Waits.

“You know where to find me.” There’s a pause and his absence, a beautiful relief.

Then she laughs, and she laughs, and she laughs so hard that tears comes to her eyes.

 

**< 306>**

Her back to the Eiffel Tower, she stares at the sea of people milling about and misses Berlin; there’s a madness she’s growing to crave. She’s been called in for a pick me up, she supposes, or a dressing down. _Or maybe both_ , she thinks. She raises her camera up, looking through the lens at the little dramas of various tourists and sneering Parisiens. And for a flashing moment, she sees Gasciogne. It shocks her enough that she takes a step back, loses the shot. She looks wildly for him again, and catches the glimpse of a shockingly beautiful blonde. Staring right at her.

She takes the shot even though her hand is trembling.

The photo is blurry, but she shows it anyway; Gasciogne is still Pierre’s leading suspect.

“MI6,” Contrôle says and waves it away. “We know they’re here.” And that’s the end of that. She doesn’t even get to keep the photo.

 

**< 340>**

She’s at one of his parties, working on an east Berliner for information, when Percival puts a line of coke in the periphery of her sight. Looking up, she shakes her head until he raises a bottle of Dom Pérignon that is older than her. “Fuck me,” she says, and he nods.

Later, when it’s just too much, she leans in. “Listen very carefully,” she says in a hushed voice, slightly slurred. “I shall say this only once.” He looks at her like a little boy, all open mouth and straining ear. She doesn’t delight in the words as she says them, but they feel like water merging with water as she does: “It’ll be over for you when the wall comes down.”

And he leans back, inscrutable. “And you’ll have a hand in it, I’m sure.”

With her fingers against the crease in his pants: “I have my hand in everything, David.”

When he laughs, she sees the vaguery of his fear.

 

**< 353>**

“Kurzfeld thinks you’re too close to Percival, thinks you’re a loose cannon,” Pierre says from behind the bar, pouring them each a cocktail. “You’re certainly obsessed.”

She takes the drink out of his hand, tastes it. Nods appreciatively. “Can you get me a gun?” she says as a non answer. “I think I should have a gun.”

He shakes his head, rolls his eyes. “Be more careful, mon cherie. We live in their shadows.”

 _Not for long,_ she thinks and raises her glass.

 

**< 365>**

Delphine takes the day off, puts up her feet and pulls out a le Carré; she’s re-reading all of his books, and faithfully. She was just fifteen when this one in particular came out, and she remembers her greedy little hands all over it, reading so fast that the story and its intricacies hardly registered. Smiley and Karla, two quiet creatures circling each other in the dark. Leaks and moles, secrets and lies all the way to the top of the circus. And oh, the messiness of loving the wrong person.

 _Don’t look that way, it’s all neon lights and Sodom,_ she reads, a formidable warning, and she considers the truth in between the lines of le Carré’s careful prose.

And in the ragged edges of her heart, she feels bittersweet about the footsteps of the men and women before her. What they knew then, what they couldn’t have ever known; an infinite war.

The wall must fall soon, she knows, but does that, does it really herald the end? Will Russia ever really step down, step away?

 

**< 369>**

Outside Tempelhof, Delphine’s eyes are drawn to a familiar woman in black and white, and she can feel the presence of something different, something new. Feminine brutality in the arch of her eyebrow and the ease of her step as she intentionally enters the wrong car.

Something poetic surges into Delphine, begging to be written down. A spinning spiral of phrases through her mind, and escaping out of her like a phantasm.

She raises her camera for a few useless snaps of Broughton disappearing, and she smiles. This woman, this _wonder_ is going to turn Berlin upside down.

 

**< 371>**

“Have you made contact with the British operative?” Pierre asks in Arabic while they wait for breakfast.

She looks sharp at her handler. “When it’s the right time.”

He fusses with his coffee, such that she knows he’s agitated and displeased with the state of things. Gasciogne’s death has him rattled. “I don’t know anything about Broughton, only that she’s elite status. That means she’s deadly.”

Delphine nods; thinks: _that’s obvious_.

“If Percival doesn’t already have the list, she’s likely to get her hands on it.” he says, and he takes a sip. Winces. Sets it down. “Watch her close. It’s more than a win if we get our hands on it first.”

She leans in. “Her or the list?”

He stares longer than is comfortable. “Get the list. And then you can write any ticket you like; stay, go, disappear. Contrôle will do anything for it.”

 

**//AUDIO RECORDING**

  * Sorry, you looked like you needed saving.
  * Well, I appreciate the gesture, Miss…?



 

**< 373>**

Delphine lies flat on her back, alone in the neon light. There’s a strong heartbeat in her chest, _boom boom_ , and her toes squeeze together. Berlin is on a precipice, yes, what with change inevitable; but so is Delphine. Everything will change the minute she moves in, presses her lips to that cold, red mouth. The burn of alcohol still on her tongue.

Her hand makes its way to her sex, more than wet and ready. A poet’s imagination has its twists and turns, and Delphine has more than enough fantasies about women in general to bring a rosy color to her cheeks. No, _no_ , nothing simple and straightforward for her thoughts focusing on that brutal blonde; her skin, the small swell of her breast, and the length of her legs.

She ruminates on the actions and reactions of the first encounter; and then her mind takes a different route. There’s a thought of Lorraine’s hand -- and cold, she imagines it, ice cold -- slipping easily between Delphine’s dress and skin, to linger on the underside of her breast. It would be in full sight of everyone at the Central Cafe; bartender, diners, staff. David Percival pretending to be hidden in the table nearby. They would all stare, curious, at this intimate touch that says, _this woman is mine_. Delphine would feel it all the way down to her toes. Two fingers would pinch lightly at her nipple before retreating, returning to the cautious propriety of Lorraine’s even and steady actions and words, despite the obvious danger underneath the veneer.

 _If she is death_ , Delphine thinks, _I’m ready to be taken._

And _taken_ she would be; though, no, not there. Not in full view of Berlin’s elite. Perhaps an alley? No, _no_ , that’s not right at all. The taxi with Lorraine’s hand gripping Delphine’s wrist so tight? No. The hotel between crisp sheets and dimmed lights.

Delphine’s hand moves in earnest now against herself, eliciting a soft sort of moan that resonates in the room.

Lorraine, she imagines, would be precise at lovemaking, which is not to say _not passionate_ ; it is to say that she is result oriented. Pleasure will be reached, desires met, and hungers satiated. Delphine imagines losing a sense of self with Lorraine’s mouth at her lips, at her breast, at her sex; a _relentless_ sort of power.

The fantasy blurs and becomes overwhelming.

Her senses primed, she’s ready for the fall, and fall she does with her fingers fast and furious against her sex and her mind focused on a false truth and a true hope.

Everything _will_ change the minute she moves in, presses her lips to that cold, red mouth.

 

**< 374>**

Under bold lights, lips crash against lips and everything that Delphine imagined is washed away.

 

**< 375>**

When it’s done, when it’s over, she has real work to do.

For you see, to approach a lioness, there is some cautiousness needed; a strategy that ends with you keeping your head. And Delphine chooses to be as mouse-like as possible, little feet against hard soil.

To seduce a lioness, now, now that takes a touch of madness.

Lorraine turns up the radio, and Delphine moves in, slow, slowly, and her lips almost touch the shell of Lorraine’s ear. In her softest voice: “He’s Satchel and I can prove it.” It’s a calculated risk and worth the reward because Lorraine flinches, turns her head slightly to the side, and her right hand grips into a fist. _What of those responses is a lie_ , she thinks, _and what is a tell?_

“I’ll consider it,” Lorraine replies out loud, and turns her head fully, facing her. Her eyes have a shockingly black look to them, and without warning, her lips crush against Delphine’s. It starts slow before growing into something quite heated. The blazing reignition of efforts so mutually enjoyed earlier.

And Delphine loses her entire train of thought.

 

**< 378>**

There’s hours before Lorraine might call ( _might_ call) and so Delphine wraps up in her coat to sit for a spell outside, camera ready to snap. She made a statement and the proof is yet to be in her hands. So, she sits, looking over David’s usual spot of meeting his contacts.

There’s some very specific daydreaming that fills her head as she waits. The curve of Lorraine’s mouth being especially featured. Delphine feels a bit silly with it, the whole thing; feels as if she’s flirting with fire. _These relationships aren’t real_ , she thinks, _but oh, what if—_

And her thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of three Russians, looking the place over and missing her in the darkness. And Bremovych walks in, brushing something off his coat and looking incessantly bored.

She holds her breath for a moment.

There’s an excitement within her and a heady feeling in her skin. _This is it_ , she thinks, and begins to snap for Percival, _David fucking Percival_ gets out of a parked car to greet Bremovych as if he’s an intimate friend. They talk like brothers, and leave looking only slightly sour as if the deal they made is distasteful.

Delphine snaps enough to make her mark, and make her point.

After, she calls Pierre, eager to say what she’s got. Thinks about Lorraine’s face and the clench of her fist, and she changes her mind. Hangs up the phone the moment she hears his voice.

 

**< 379>**

Being fucked by Lorraine the second time is an enlightening experience.

It begins with a sucking kiss against her neck and a hand up her skirt. Back against the door, Delphine gasps into the air and marvels at the lack of small talk, shop talk, any kind of talk. Just mouths kissing and fingers reaching, finding what they’re looking for. And it’s not as if she isn’t instantly wet for this.

The word _brutal_ comes to mind, but that doesn’t seem right; perhaps _without mercy_. Lorraine just stands there, pressing against her form with her fingers deep inside Delphine with a perfect rhythm of thrusts until Delphine sees white. It’s a sharp sort of orgasm, lovely as it lasts, and Delphine’s gasping mouth is covered quickly with Lorraine’s. And they kiss until Delphine calms, stops clenching Lorraine’s arm so tight.

Lorraine leans back her head and lets out a strange sort of laugh. “I missed you,” she says as an explanation, and Delphine feels a little glow burn in the deepest corner of her heart. Makes the most demure expression she can muster. “Cigarette?”

It’s a beautiful thing to watch, Lorraine pulling off her coat and clothes and underthings to slide almost casually into Delphine’s bed, like she lives there, and sucking so easily on a cigarette. Delphine could watch her like this for hours; every inch of her is beautiful and so many of the moves she makes are such calculated things. Stunning, and terrifying. Educating. And Delphine wants her, oh, how she wants her.

She grips Lorraine’s ankle and feels the heat rise in her blood at the touch. Knees on the bed now, she crawls into the perfect position, poised between Lorraine’s legs and dipping her mouth down low.

There’s nothing so delicious as eating a woman out; the sharp taste of her and the distinct pleasure of leaving a woman in shatters. But Lorraine is different.

Delphine is, admittedly, falling, and it changes her tact and tactics. Oh, how she lingers at her sex; licking in with an attentive care against such soft skin. Oh, how she listens to Lorraine’s responses and presses in harder to elicit deeper moans, weaker sighs. Oh, how she waits so long before pushing her fingers inside Lorraine’s shuddering sex, just to increase her desire.

There’s an intensity in the mix of tongue, teeth, and fingers, and Lorraine is obviously no novice to pleasure. The moan begins low in Lorraine’s belly, Delphine can hear it, and it rises up her body, past her lungs and throat and out of her mouth; a beautiful and lengthy sound matched with the crash of Lorraine’s sex against Delphine’s fingers. Delphine smiles against her skin, measuring the length of the orgasm in her mind and feeling more than proud of herself for being the cause.

“Again,” is Lorraine’s command and Delphine is all too happy to oblige.

This time she fucks in with more fingers as her tongue curves and twists; a fierce sort of act with a singular goal. And when she knows it’s almost reached, when she feels the shudder in Lorraine’s skin, she slows her paces. Kisses that sensitive skin slowly and sweetly; like a precious coquette. Lorraine’s frustrated groan hits her in her gut, makes her feel warm all over. The thought of bringing this peerless titan to her knees makes for a certain kind of joy.

The groan becomes a whimper. Lorraine’s fingers tangle in Delphine’s hair, affectionately rather than forcefully. “You’re cruel,” she whispers into the night air, and Delphine breathes it in.

Hunger begins to grow fierce in her belly, the desire for kisses, real kisses, and so Delphine graciously allows for mercy. Speeds up her efforts and the intensity of her force. Lorraine seems to writhe like a live wire before breathing so very, very heavily, and Delphine hears her name on Lorraine’s lips. It’s so breathtaking, she can barely stand it.

The moment, the very second that Lorraine’s orgasm comes to a close, it’s like both of them ignite on fire to get close, closer, and to crush lips against lips. Kisses that build on kisses, a ferocity that overwhelms and inspires such an intensive heat. Delphine feels like she’ll burn from the inside out, pressed so close and so dear.

Irony, of course, has it that Delphine is still fully clothed, but Lorraine expertly helps her out of them, kissing every inch of skin she can find as she does. And with her mouth close to Delphine’s ear, Lorraine whispers, “I’m going to fuck you again,” and Delphine shivers.

Lorraine’s hand spans the width of her breast and squeezes in tight before sliding down her belly to points beyond. Her fingers find the mess of wetness there, and slide lazily through it. As Delphine’s heart begins to race, Lorraine lingers there for some time, some light and some hard presses against Delphine’s needy clit before pushing in hard into her sex. Delphine swallows a gasp as Lorraine lolls about inside of her, stretching her with two fingers scissoring but none of the merciless force from before. It’s a surprise, a complete surprise, when Delphine comes so very slowly from these delicate touches.

They kiss again, an almost drowsy act as Lorraine continues her gentle attention. It’s a decadent feeling, to be so kindly ravished and yet Delphine wants, craves more. But she’s not one, oh, she’s not one to tell this woman what to do and what to do to her.

Dizzy from pleasure, Delphine finds herself coming again, and again, and again. And some of it from the fantasy of Lorraine wrecking her, like before, but it never happens. No; this steady elegance continues until Delphine is out of her mind, finding herself close to coming at every careful touch. Lorraine shatters her, shatters her utterly.

 _She is going to eat me alive_ , she thinks, and knows herself to be completely out of her depth.

 

**< 380>**

They get breakfast at a cafe nearby; a strange domesticity that Delphine didn’t see coming. Expecting Lorraine to leave in the night like she did last time. But here she is, drinking coffee and eating piles of eggs and bacon with her. Like they do this; like this is a thing that is done.

Lorraine doesn’t talk much but Delphine has more than enough topics to explore. Her home in Algeria, her first camera, the coldest night she had in Paris never prepared her for Berlin, a Belgian poet she’s madly jealous of, and she touches on the topic of Klara. Brief, brief words.

“I heard about her. That was you?” she says suddenly. “He told me it was a frog, I assumed Pierre.” And Lorraine’s face seems to shift, as if she’s momentarily caught. Then, her face smoothes out, and the blonde smiles. “That was good work, Delphine.” She lifts her coffee cup. “I thought you said the list was your first assignment.”

Delphine leans back in her chair. “I lied.”

Lorraine’s lips purse together. “ _That_ was good work too.” And she looks out the window, her posture subtly changing. “I have to go, love.”

“Can I help?” she says, and it sounds more desperate than she’d like.

There’s that smile again, with something beguiling in it. “Not today.”

 

**< 381>**

They’re all missing, every one of them. Lorraine, Percival. She can’t find Kurzfeld in any of his usual spots. Bremovych is a ghost. Pierre doesn’t have any answers.

She can hear the protest in the east and ice slowly slips along her spine. She missed something, something vital that is going on, right now, right over there, and there’s nothing she can do.

Helplessness is the worst emotion a human can feel.

 

**//AUDIO RECORDING**

  * Why are you here? You need to leave Berlin.
  * When I didn’t hear from you I got worried.
  * How naive can you be? We chose this life, Delphine, this only ends one way.
  * What are you talking about?
  * He set us both up. You have to leave while you can.



 

**< 382>**

As the door slams shut, Delphine feels Lorraine’s absence; a sort of cold that permeates the bones and chills the blood. _I’ll never see her again_ , she thinks and an empty void looms in the periphery of her vision. _These relationships aren’t real_ , she thinks. There’s a cruel unfairness to it that stings, and her heart, oh how it aches.

She stares at the UHF device in her hands; French work, obvious. Years behind the ones made in England and the US. And yet it probably worked perfectly fine wherever it was that Percival placed it. In the room, on Lorraine’s person in some way. He was listening in on _everything_ , the fucker.

Delphine shivers. It would add up, this web he’s woven. Oh, the story Percival would tell about a French woman capriciously spying on a British operative on a mission all too important for the Allied. Pierre would contest it, vehemently, but Contrôle would retire her immediately.

And in that moment, she knows that, in Percival’s Berlin, there is no escape from him. She has to leave, and leave immediately. While she still can. There’s something wet in her eyes and she hates it. Hates him.

A bottle is still open on Lorraine’s table, and she lunges for it. Drinks a messy gulp and wipes her mouth. She despises vodka but the burn down her throat wakes her up.

 _Eye on the prize_ , she thinks. Her hands ball into fists. She knows exactly what to do.

 

\---


End file.
